


like rain upon stone

by Fleur



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Atmospheric, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Slow Burn, Tension, hogwarts after dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:55:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23724925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fleur/pseuds/Fleur
Summary: It's a dark and stormy night at Hogwarts, and Hermione can't sleep.--A war-changed Hermione and Severus slowly find their way to each other over the course of several rainy nights at Hogwarts.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to this soundscape on YouTube when I imagined Hermione walking through the darkened halls of Hogwarts and began writing for the first time in years, please feel free to listen while you read: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCb5_r3PvxI

It was a dark and stormy night, and Hermione couldn’t sleep.  
  
She slipped quietly from under the covers and padded to the window, her feet whispering across the stone floor. 

She’d always loved the rain. There were endless jokes about the grey skies of Britain and how the gloomy weather bred sour people, but the gloom had always seemed like a blanket to her. There was a certain quiet that came with a grey sky, a certain peace from the gentle skittering of raindrops on a window, and they had always created the perfect excuse to sit by a crackling fire with a good book.  
  
She sat on the cushioned bench beneath the windowsill and stared down at the empty grounds of Hogwarts, letting the cold radiating from the glass brush her cheeks. 

The school was healing. In fact, it was healing better than anyone expected it to, after the trauma of the Battle-with-a-capital-“B.” Everyone had taken time away, taken time to be with family as the school was given time to rebuild. There were still bits of the castle that showed the scars of crumbled rock and scorching fires, but for the most part… it still looked like home. And felt, surprisingly, like safety.  
  
Everyone had scattered to their respective homes, but Hermione had traveled. She’d taken the not-immodest sum of money given to her by the Ministry as a Thank You For Your Service, and decided to finally go see some of the world’s sights. She wanted to see for herself what she’d read about in books, in case… well, in case it all happened again. Yes, the world was still standing. Britain was healing, and not nearly as damaged as it could have been. But there had been Grindelwald, and there had been Voldemort, and there would be another one day. Hopefully not in her lifetime, but she no longer had a good excuse to put off doing the things she wanted to do.  
  
She’d waded in the pool outside L’Hemisferic in Spain, ridden a camel in Morocco, tasted wine in Italy, saw an opera in Prague, and attempted to get a photo of Mount Fuji that did it justice. She thinks she did alright, though no photograph can compare to when she closes her eyes and remembers.  
  
She did not go to Australia. And no, she didn’t want to talk about it.  
  
When she’d returned to gloomy, rain-soaked Britain nearly a year later, she returned a little calmer, a little tanner, and walking just a little taller. If she’d aged 30 years while hunting for the Horcruxes, her maturity had caught up somewhere along the route of her travels. She was nearly-20 when she’d set off to see the world (thanks to her days with the time turner), and the nearly-21 woman who returned was every inch an adult. 

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the rain began its furious tip-tapping anew as the wind shifted and blew more of the downpour against Hermione’s window. She shivered.

She had returned to Hogwarts to complete her studies, simply because it seemed the right thing to do--and also, she couldn’t stand to leave a task unfinished. Call her typical, call her predictable, call her anything you please, but she didn’t care. She’d set out to get a magical education, and she wasn’t satisfied with an honorary degree. 

So here she was again. In the drafty, beautiful, quiet castle that had raised her, challenged her, and nearly killed her in the end. 

She couldn’t sleep, and she knew it wasn’t even worth trying, so she sighed, stood, and when she shivered again, she draped a cloak around her shoulders and slipped a pair of soft shoes onto her feet. It was time to take a walk. 

\--

Down stairs, across hallways, around corners, past portraits, through tapestries and down the secret passages they hid, Hermione walked. 

She didn’t have a destination, she simply lost herself in the meditative motion of one foot in front of the other, the quiet shuffling of slippered feet on stone and worn rugs, and the tap-tap-tap of rain on windows, rooftops, and distant trees. 

Down and around, down and around, she zigzagged through the layers of the castle, past silent classrooms, darkened hallways, and one beautifully carved door she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before. Down she spiraled until she reached the ground floor, where she drifted into the Great Hall. The fires still burned in the grates, giving the giant room a comfortable aura of warmth. She peered up at the ceiling and basked for a moment in the illusion of the enchanted ceiling's depiction of the rainy night outside. 

Yeah, this was home. Scars and all.  
  
She trailed her hand over the worn wood of the Gryffindor table--or what used to be the Gryffindor table. In a bid to make everyone feel more unified in the wake of such a horribly divisive war, houses had been abolished, at least temporarily. For the most part, it had worked. The Slytherins hadn’t been all bad, and the ones who had timidly returned to continue their education had been welcomed back with open arms. Just another way the school, and the people in it, were healing.  
  
Scattered images of her time here with Harry and Ron flashing through her memory before she blinked, sighed, and wandered back towards the entrance hall.

\--

The choice seemed to come from her feet, rather than her head. She intended to begin the climb back to her small bedroom in the southernmost tower, but instead she found herself once again descending, step by step, into the chill of the dungeons. 

No fires burned down here, where the gloom and quiet should have felt vaguely sinister. Should have, but didn’t. She’d spent a lot of time in these halls fearful of losing house points, afraid to raise her hand but compelled to do so nonetheless, and trying her level best to help her classmates without being caught by Professor Snape.

Professor Snape. Professor Snape, _War Hero_. 

Who would have thought.

Her feet carried her down the deserted passage until she came to a stop outside a very familiar door. She reached out and grasped the handle.

He’d nearly died that night, so very nearly, and yet he’d pulled through in the end and come back to haunt these halls once more.

Not that Hermione had seen much of him yet. She’d completed her Potions and Charms NEWTs early, and therefore wasn’t taking either class as part of her final-year curriculum. She probably could have taken her Transfiguration one early too, but it felt right to return to Minerva McGonagall's class and spend as much time in the Scottish matron’s presence as possible. 

She’d been back at Hogwarts for just over a month, and seen the tall, dark, and ever brooding shape of Severus Snape just twice. Once at the welcoming feast, and once in the second-floor corridor on an otherwise unremarkable Wednesday afternoon. She didn’t know what he was doing there, but she caught his unmistakable silhouette disappearing around a corner as she was emerging from a classroom. And then he was gone, and she hadn’t seen him again since. 

It almost felt like he wasn’t here at all. Like the two sightings had been sightings of a ghost. Like maybe he actually _had_ died, and her brain was just refusing to accept it, filling in a gap in her trauma to make her feel better.

But no, she’d kept copies of the Daily Prophet from the weeks after the war ended. Headlines that announced Voldemort’s fall, the end of the Muggleborn Registration, the imprisonment of Dolores Umbridge, and the reopening of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Physical reminders that it was over, that the good guys had won, and that the world was once again right. 

Or, as right as it had been before Voldemort’s reign of terror. 

And nestled in that stack, there was one sheet announcing that Severus Snape had been cleared of all charges and allowed to return to whichever life he so chose. Hermione had thought he’d pick a quiet retirement after everything he’d been through. Instead, he’d returned to the castle.

Maybe she wasn’t the only one who considered this home.

She took a breath, and gently tugged open the heavy classroom door.

\--

The room was dark, save for a small flame burning low under a cauldron on one of the work tables. Some potion left to simmer overnight. She was sure if she walked over and inspected it she could tell what it was, but… she suddenly felt like she was intruding. Silly, to intrude first and feel bashful about it later, but she supposed some sense of entitlement had crept into her since the Battle. She and her friends had bled for this pile of stones at the edge of a forest in Scotland, she could damn well make herself welcome in its many rooms.

All the same… 

With a final glance at the tiny flame, she turned to leave.

“Was there something you required, Miss Granger?”

Hermione spun toward the rumbling voice. How long had he been there? 

“I’m sorry, sir, I—“

“It’s a bit late to be out of bed.”

“Yes sir, I—“

“You didn’t come to steal from my stores again, did you?”

“No sir, I just—“

“Oh calm down, girl. I’m not going to take house points from you, as there are currently no houses from which to take points. You are an adult, and as such you have no curfew within these walls. If you have come to steal from my stores, you should know you need only ask for what you wish, since you have passed your NEWT and, clearly, can be trusted with dangerous substances. Now, why are you in my classroom in the dead of night?”

Snape leaned back onto his desk, placing the heels of his hands on the dark wood and crossing one ankle over the other. He raised an eyebrow at her.

It was an odd sight. Like he was somehow both relaxed, and coiled to spring. It brought to mind a jungle cat, lounging casually while licking its razor sharp claws, tail flicking as if daring something to come closer.

She wasn’t sure she had ever seen him standing in any way that couldn’t be defined as “ramrod straight.” She wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

“I wasn’t coming to steal from you,” she finally whispered. She cleared her throat a bit, scaring some of the cobwebs off her voice. When she spoke, it was with more self-assurance. “I was just taking a walk. Sir.” 

“Indeed. But you have not answered my question, Miss Granger. What are you doing _in_ _my_ _classroom_ in the dead of night?”

He pushed off the desk in one feline movement, and stalked quietly down the rows of desks toward her, folding his arms across his chest and standing up taller. There he was, the imposing figure from her childhood. Although now, she too was grown.

He stalked right up to her and looked down his nose at her. She lifted her chin, and met his gaze. All at once, she saw it—he was just a man. He had only ever been just a man. And a man, she could handle. She cocked her head slightly to one side.

“Are you trying to intimidate me… sir?” She breathed.

“Is that even possible, Miss Granger?”

He was teasing her. Interesting.

“No, sir,” she huffed a little laugh. “Not much scares me anymore. Least of all you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Good girl,” he rumbled.

She felt it then, a little electric tingle at the base of her spine. Gooseflesh broke out on the backs of her arms, and she resisted the urge to shiver.

The silence instantly grew thicker, and she took a breath, not knowing what she’d say but knowing she had to say something. This was suddenly uncharted territory, and she needed to say _something_ …

A light chime sounded in the room, and Snape let out a breath that could have been a small sigh. “Excuse me, Miss Granger.”

He turned and strode to the cauldron in the corner, picking up a glass rod and beginning to stir slowly and rhythmically. 

The bizarre tension broken, Hermione finally spoke.

“I should… well, it’s late and… goodnight, Professor." She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, and made for the door.

As she pulled it shut behind her, she thought she heard a low voice murmur, “Goodnight, Miss Granger.”

She walked quickly back up to the entrance hall, back to normalcy, back to the pitter-patter of rain on windows and the whispering of wind through the trees.

As she reached her room and slipped under the covers once more, thunder rumbled. 

The dark and stormy nights always were the ones to watch out for.


	2. Chapter 2

October faded into November, and bonfire night was upon them. Not that anyone acknowledged it.

Bonfire night wasn’t celebrated at Hogwarts, and Hermione had longed for it every year she’d been away from home. It had always been a favorite night of hers, filled with color and fire and laughter and games. There were so many simple joys to be found with her family gathered around a roaring fire, and it was time she reclaimed the night for herself.

She didn’t have family anymore, but fire? That, she could do.

Hermione wrapped a scarf around her neck, threw her cloak around her shoulders, and waited. 

Minutes turned into an hour turned into two hours and then, when all was quiet and she was sure the castle was finally asleep, she slipped from her room and drifted downwards toward the great oak doors. 

\--

A brisk breeze ruffled her hair as she pulled the heavy castle door closed behind her, and she huffed a breath that turned to fog before her eyes. 

Well, there was no reason she couldn’t combine the bonfire night of her childhood with the benefits of being a witch. She slipped her wand from her sleeve and, with half a thought, cast a warming charm over herself. 

The warmth seeped into her skin like a gentle hug, and she smiled contentedly. Better. 

Brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face, she descended down the castle steps toward the edge of the forest, heading for a small glade she knew would be out of sight of Hagrid’s hut. 

It didn’t take long to gather some wood, leaves, and kindling from the forest floor, and soon a small pyre stood in the center of the glade. 

“Remember, remember…” Hermione whispered to herself, and with a smirk, a flick, a spark, and a _whoosh_ , a fire roared to life before her. 

She conjured a thick blanket and settled down on it, pulling her cloak tight around her and letting herself get lost in the meditative crackling and dancing of the flames.

Fire was the first thing she’d reclaimed for herself after the wizarding war was over. She’d spent nine months lighting fires to stay alive while hunting horcruxes, and then a seemingly interminable night running from fiendfyre, parrying jets of flame shot from wands, and dodging bits of burning, crumbling castle. Fire brought death and fire gave life, and Hermione refused to live in fear of it. She refused to give up late nights reading by the fireplace because the crackling reminded her of a burning courtyard, refused to give up the comfort of a flickering candle because the shapes on the walls looked a little too much like dragons, and she refused to give up bonfire night simply because she no longer lived in muggle society. 

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there before the first drops began to fall. She squinted skyward at the intrusion and briefly considered taking it as a sign and calling it a night. But the night was calm, the fire was warm, the smoke smelled divine, and she felt at peace. She’d linger a little longer.

She pulled her wand from her sleeve once more and waved it in an arc over her head. There was a faint shimmer, and then the drops began to halt in midair and slip to the side to fall to the ground in a wide circle around her, as if rolling off a giant invisible umbrella. 

Minutes ticked by and Hermione drifted into a comfortable daze... the sounds of the fire wrapped in the sounds of rain on leaves wrapped in the rustle of the wind through the trees, all wrapped around her. 

And then, so very quietly, but so distinctly, the snap of a branch behind her. 

She whirled around, wand immediately in hand and pointed into the darkness. 

“Don’t shoot,” came a deep voice from the shadows, tinged with amusement and a dusting of sarcasm. 

Hermione loosed the breath she’d been holding, slipping her wand back into her sleeve once more. “You startled me.”

“So I see.”

A wand tip flared to life in the gloom, illuminating the pale face of her former Potions professor. 

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” she admonished, turning to face the fire once again. 

“And you shouldn’t turn your back on the enemy, Miss Granger,” he drawled. She smirked, and looked over her shoulder to where he stood, cocking an eyebrow.

“Are you my enemy, Professor?”

Thunder rumbled somewhere in the far distance, and the rain itself seemed to hesitate. A moment, an answering quirk of the corner of his mouth, and then:

“No.”

A slight breeze made its way through the treetops, and Hermione brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. 

“Then I see no problem…. Sir.”

He glanced over her small campfire, as if noticing it for the first time. His brow furrowed infinitesimally, and then relaxed again as he said, “Ah. Gunpowder treason and plot, is it?” 

She shrugged. “Call me nostalgic. I used to celebrate with my parents. You made the connection quickly, I’m impressed” she said, leadingly.

“My father was a muggle. I was aware of the day, at least.” 

She hummed in understanding. She knew about his parentage from the debacle with the potions text in her sixth year, but she was vaguely surprised he offered personal information so simply.

The rain began to patter on the leaves of the surrounding trees with more vigor, and Hermione glanced skyward once more before curiosity finally got its claws in her.

“So, sir… what brings you out to the forest on such a dreary night, if not a muggle excuse to set things on fire?” she asked, leaning back to place her hands behind her on the blanket. 

He finally doused his wand and stepped forward into the firelight, and she saw that while one hand held his wand, the other held a simple woven basket. He placed the basket on the blanket beside her, and she peered into it. 

Sprigs of valerian root, white rain-damp mushrooms, a cutting of bark that looked like willow (she wondered if he’d had to fight for it), and a small cluster of delicate white flowers. She raised her eyebrows.

“It’s not nearly time for snowdrops yet, where did you get those?” She looked to his face, finding it shadowed by his curtain of dark hair. 

“I am, you see, a wizard,” he spoke slowly, mockingly, but not cruelly. 

“I had, in fact, noticed that,” she retorted. “What I meant was, magically growing a plant alters its efficacy in potion making, which I assume is what you’ve gathered all this for. So you’ve either found this in an interesting place, grown it in an interesting way, or you’re using it for an interesting purpose.” She cocked her head, considering him. “Or the snowdrops are meant to brighten up your workspace… but you don’t seem the type.”

“Nosy little thing, aren’t you,” he purred. 

“Always, but that can’t possibly be news to you,” she said dismissively, ignoring the sudden ripple of chills down her back. She reached into the basket and plucked out a snowdrop, rolling the stem between her fingers and watching the brilliant white blossom dance in the gentle flickering light of her fire.

The firewood popped loudly and the logs shifted and settled, sending a plume of sparks into the air along with the rising smoke. 

Hermione dropped the delicate flower back into the basket, glanced sideways at the polished black shoes still unmoving in the damp grass, and trailed her eyes upwards. He was so tall, and could be described as lanky except that “lanky” implied a lack of grace, and he moved with an amount of grace that was nearly supernatural. She’d never seen a person move with such fluidity and purpose, like black ink through water, made human. Her gaze reached his face, and found him staring into the fire, the light dancing in his dark eyes. 

She took a breath, considered, and then:

“You can sit, you know.”

He turned to look down at her, his hair casting most of his face into shadow once more so she couldn’t see his expression. 

“I _can_?” came the mocking tone. She sighed, beleaguered.

“You _may_ , you pedant. Sit. Enjoy the peace and quiet.” She motioned around them lazily with one hand.

“There is quiet to be enjoyed? I was under the impression you never stopped talking for more than a moment.”

“Don’t be an arse,” she quipped before she realized what she was saying. He went still, and a schoolgirl instinct toward deference had her snapping her face to his, drawing a breath to apologize--but then she remembered. She was an adult, and she no longer answered to him. He was a professor, yes, but he was not _her_ professor. The school and her place in it were in a strange limbo, and she refused to be cowed by him the way she had been as a child.

His voice was inky and cold as he said, “You forget your place, Miss Granger.” 

She bristled.

“My apologies, _Professor_. Don’t be an arse, _sir_ ,” she said calmly and clearly, emphasizing the honorifics. 

He stared down at her. She stared up at him. 

She refused to back down first. 

Finally he exhaled sharply, picked up his basket, and turned to walk back to the castle. 

He got as far as the edge of the glade when Hermione called after him.

“Willow, valerian, and what I’m pretty sure are Lion’s Mane mushrooms; treatments for pain, sleep, and memory. The snowdrops I’m not sure about, but whatever you’re working on… if you need an assistant, you know where to find me.”

He paused, for just a moment. He turned his head a fraction as if considering a reply. 

But then he straightened, continued on, and disappeared into the darkness. 

Hermione was left alone once more with the crackling of her fire, the patter of gentle rainfall, and the eddying swirl of her thoughts. 

_Remember, remember…_

She stood abruptly and doused the flames with a wave of her wand, plunging the campsite into darkness. 

As she slid the length of wood back into her sleeve, her fingers brushed the ridges of a jagged scar on her forearm. 

_Remember, remember..._

Remembering was easy. 

The hard part was forgetting.


End file.
